


A Day I Met You (and Days After That)

by hangrybluewhale



Series: Motherhood (ASOIAF) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #i got the ages wrong because I forgot to math, #mostly canon compliant, #rhaenys is three when aegon is born though, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2019-10-19 21:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17609459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangrybluewhale/pseuds/hangrybluewhale
Summary: Before Aegon was born, Elia Martell wondered if she could truly love a child who'd remind her of Rhaegar, in the wake of her humiliation at that tourney, the shadow of Harrenhal looming over his birth, and felt guilty.What kind of mother doesn't love their own child?But that had been before she'd held him in her arms for the first time.





	1. Chapter 1

Elia had not truly spoken to her husband since they’d argued after the Tourney of Harrenhal. 

 

She had long heard the whispers at court, of how  _ Dornish  _ she was, of how she had tainted the pure Targaryen bloodline and now the heir to the throne was a Martell-looking girl. That same gaggle of lickspittles and false friends would then sneer that she was too weak, feeble, with none of the fire and passion one would expect to see in a  _ Dornishwoman _ . They were never less than courteous to her face, but she would not forget the scorn Rhaenys had met with when she’d once happily announced that her black kitten was named Balerion. 

 

“As if you could ride a dragon anyways,” a lord who had submitted a petition at court earlier that day sniggered, thinking that Rhaenys was wandering the corridors of the Red Keep alone, not realising that her mother, the Crown Princess herself was nearby watching over her. “You’re more brown than silver,” he said, because Rhaenys had not reached her third nameday, and he fancied that either too young or slow of wit to understand what he was saying. 

He’d fallen to his knees in shock when she made her presence known, calling to her daughter, but instead of striking him she merely smiled and bid him rise, telling him that no harm was done. 

 

He remained paranoid, she could tell. The servants in his quarters reported that he would prod at the food he was served suspiciously, and peered under his covers. “Checking for scorpions, most like, m’lady.” Elia thanked the servants and dismissed them. Why bother with poison when the fools were likely to stress themselves half to death wondering what she would do to them anyways?

 

But try as she might, she felt...inadequate. 

Her own goodfather had expressed disgust at his granddaughter, when he claimed that she “smelled Dornish”. And the lords and ladies who typically questioned the Mad King’s wits, his ability to sit the Iron Throne and rule soundly, for once agreed with Aerys Targaryen’s judgement on this matter!  

 

The last Martell Crown Princess had also suffered a nightmare for a goodfather. Aegon the Unworthy had truly lived up to his name, and died a festering, rotting sack of flesh from his gluttony. 

But she had a husband who had loved her, as far as anyone could tell. He had certainly respected her, and valued her counsel, if the Dornish influence about the Red Keep, and the swing towards a more intellectual, less martial nature of court, were anything to go by.

 

Elia was not Mariah Martell, and from his actions at Harrenhal, Rhaegar was no Daeron the Good. He’d insulted her, he’d dishonoured Lyanna Stark, and enraged her betrothed. 

His own feeble attempts to justify his action, to rationalise and explain his indecent behaviour —

 

He’d started out, calm and collected at first, before she saw his eyes darken, and his words tumbled out his mouth in a mad rush. He spoke of three-headed dragons, of ice and fire, of a Long Night and a hero, a flaming sword. 

She wondered if he was mad. Not the madness so evident in his father, but he lived in a dream of his own making, ignoring the real problems that he had created out of his own actions. 

“You would not understand, Elia,” he’d said when he was finished. 

She told herself she would be calm and collected when she spoke with him. Any anger she showed might turn him against her. She suppressed a bitter laugh. What else could he do to shame her further, show the realm how little regard he held for his wife? 

But now she replied, “I suppose Lyanna Stark would, in my place?”

Rhaegar looked pained, as if he had any right to be upset about the situation. “I need you both.” 

 

A wave of pain hit her. 

 

She gripped Ashara Dayne’s hand tighter and screamed; it was unseemly in a Crown Princess but for once she couldn’t care what they would say about her, it  _ hurt  _ too much.

“A son, my lady,” she heard someone say through a haze of pain. Against her will she heard Rhaegar’s voice in her head.

 

“The Prince who was Promised.”  

* * *

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

She wondered if she could love her son, a son who so reminded her of Rhaegar, with the silver-fair hair so telling of the blood of Old Valyria. 

 

Rhaenys was a Targaryen, there was no doubting that, but she looked like  _ her,  _ and Rhaenys’ bold, mischievous antics with her black kitten would oft remind her of Oberyn, the brother she had grown up with and missed dearly, especially now that she was in the gloomy, damp halls of Dragonstone, so utterly unlike Sunspear or even the Water Gardens, full of life and the peals of laughter from children; both highborn and common. 

 

She still missed Dorne, even after all this time spent up north. 

 

Of course, in the light of what Rhaegar had done at Harrenhal, perhaps it was a good thing that her son looked so Targaryen. At least no one would be able to sneer that he was not a “true dragon”, and his seat as his father’s heir would be secure. 

 

“I want to hold my son,” she said, pushing herself upright against the pillows while looking over at the veritable army of wetnurses and midwives currently tending to Aegon. 

The maester — not Pycelle, thankfully — plucked at his chain and demurred. “That would be... inadvisable in your current condition, my lady. Your body is still weak from delivering the child and the placenta. I suggest you rest now. Your son will still be here for you to hold when you are stronger.” 

“Would there be any danger to my son’s health if I held him now? Would he catch a chill?” She asked, though in truth it was hard to get the words out. She was exhausted, and though her mouth was dry her tongue felt oddly thick and swollen. 

“I have examined your son, and he appears to be a healthy babe. It is your health that concerns me —”

 

Elia cut him off. “My health is... what it has always been, but I am not so frail as to break like glass when I carry a newborn infant.” She smiled slightly, to soften the sting in her words. “After all, I held Rhaenys after she was born. I only wish to see for myself what my son looks like.” 

The maester hesitated, then bowed his head once, before calling to the midwives now swaddling the baby in Targaryen red and black cloth to bring him over, nestling him gently into Elia’s arms. 

 

Her first thought was that the baby looked somewhat like a large pale prune, with softly wrinkled skin. Though she had heard one of her ladies in waiting exclaim that he had soft, silvery hair like beaten silver, when she looked at the top of his head that silvery hair was very fine, and barely covered the soft spot on his head. 

She adjusted the black cloth that was covering her child’s face slightly, and looked at his features intently. His eyes were still shut, so they would not be certain what colour they were, but Elia did have to admit that she saw something of herself in the baby’s nose and possibly the shape of his ears. It made her smile, despite the dull anger that she still felt towards Rhaegar. 

 

This boy was his son, no one could doubt it. But this boy was her son as well, and she realised that she could not hate him despite his father’s actions. She had spent hours — long, gruelling hours, alternating between screaming in pain and panting in exhaustion, while around her the midwives and ladies in waiting let her squeeze their hands and encouraged her to  _ breathe and push _ with all her strength — bringing this baby into the world. 

She felt a fierce sense of protectiveness swell in her chest, and was determined that no one would ever hurt her child. 

 

But she could not entirely quell the disquiet in her mind that worried if her son would grow up to be influenced and swayed against his Dornish blood, that would be seen as a blemish against his Valyrian heritage. 

_ No,  _ she thought.  _ I will not let that happen. My son will grow up with pride that he and his sister are Targaryens with Martell blood, from an ancient lineage of heroes on both sides.  _

She knew that in this, she would have the support of her good-mother, Queen Rhaella Targaryen, who had warmly embraced Rhaenys in direct defiance of her monstrously cruel husband. She also knew that Rhaenys herself, nearly three years old and jubilant at the idea of no longer being the youngest in the family, would be a loving sister. 

 

And Rhaegar...

Life was far from ideal. The bitter memory of the Tourney of Harrenhal still lingered between them, even though she had been nothing less than courteous towards him, apart from that one outburst. She could not afford to lose her temper, and risk being branded as a “witch” or a “harridan”. They still had to manage the political mess that Rhaegar had dragged them into and stubbornly refused to acknowledge. 

Yet, holding onto her son, as wind howled outside the birthing room and rain lashed at the windows, she felt a sense of calm settle over her. 

 

It was not quite peace, but it might have been hope.     


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rhaenys meets her baby brother and Rhaegar holds his son for the first time. It turns out that Rhaegar is not all that great with babies.

* * *

 

When Rhaenys was told she was to have a younger sibling, she had been so excited. 

Elia recalled how she had dashed to the royal sept, as fast as her little legs would carry her, and stopped in front of the statues of the Mother and the Father, staring at the pale stone effigies expectantly. 

 

“What are you doing, Rhaenys?” Elia was puzzled. 

Rhaenys turned to her mother. “Sep-ta says when two people love each other, the Mother and Father give them a baby,” she said, with a solemn air that was at odds with her generally bright, energetic demeanor. “I’m waiting for the baby to come.”

 

It made Elia laugh, despite her weariness and the pain she had from walking, given her swollen ankles. The maester had advised her to remain in bed, lest she tire herself out, but surely he did not expect her to stay in bed after her daughter had taken off running to goodness-knows-where after she had told her she was expecting another child. 

 

“That is not how babies are born, Rhaenys.” 

Her daughter was shocked. “Sep-ta lied?” She frowned. “That’s not right.”

 

Elia decided that her three year old daughter was not at all ready to learn how babies were made. “Your septa did not lie,” Elia said, walking over to stand in front of the statues with her daughter. She placed a hand on her stomach, which was already starting to show signs of pregnancy. “The baby is in here, in Mama’s belly.” 

 

The look of astonishment on Rhaenys’ face was priceless. “In there?” 

Elia smiled. “You will have to wait a little while though. The baby is not yet ready to be born.”

Rhaenys frowned and looked thoughtful. It was an expression Elia had seen on Doran, and on their lady mother, when they were contemplative. 

 

“Can I touch your belly, Mama? I’ll be very gentle.” When Elia nodded, Rhaenys lifted a hand and placed it on Elia’s stomach, over Elia’s own hand. She said, in a very loud voice, “Hello, baby. I’m your big sister. Come out soon so I can play with you. I have many nice dollies, but you can have one too.” 

 

Elia smoothed the curls atop her daughter’s head. “Only one dolly?” 

Rhaenys looked at her mother and whispered, “The baby gets one now, then we can share the rest after she is born.” 

“What if you have a little brother instead of a sister?” 

“We can share the dollies if he likes to play with them. Or we can play monsters-and-maidens!”  

It made Elia want to lift  her daughter up into a hug, although she did not think she had the strength to do it now. Instead she said, “You’re going to be a wonderful sister, Rhaenys.” 

 

Rhaenys nodded enthusiastically. “The best!”

* * *

 

“Rhaenys, come over here.” Elia said, beckoning to her daughter. “This is your baby brother. His name is Aegon.”

 

“He looks like an egg, Mama,” Rhaenys said. Her eyes were wide as she looked at the baby Rhaegar had decided to name Aegon. “He has no hair!” 

 

Someone laughed. To her surprise, it was Rhaegar. 

“He’s only a baby, Rhaenys. Of course he doesn’t have much hair yet.” 

Rhaenys ran over to her father, who was standing in the doorway of Elia’s chambers. She tugged at his hand and led him to the bed, where Elia was currently holding Aegon. 

 

It made Elia tense, though she tried her best not to show it. She knew it would upset Rhaenys to know of her parents’ strained relationship. 

“But he looks like you, Papa,” Rhaenys said, looking between Rhaegar and the baby in Elia’s arms. She seemed to think of something then, and smiled. It was a smile full of mischief. “Did you have no hair when you were a baby too?” 

 

Elia had to admit it was hard to keep from laughing at Rhaegar’s expense. He looked stunned, though she kept a carefully neutral expression on her own face.

“Well,” he said, recovering from his shock. “I think you might have to ask your grandmother Rhaella that question when you next see her.” He sat down in a chair at Elia’s bedside, lifted Rhaenys easily, and settled her into his lap. 

It was amazing, really, how easily Rhaenys made her typically melancholy, distant father smile. Elia knew that Rhaegar loved his daughter. 

 

It just made his actions at Harrenhal seem that much more bizarre. 

 

Rhaegar looked at her over the top of Rhaenys’ head. “How is Aegon?” 

 

“He’s well. Quiet for now, though he would not stop crying in the nursery until I brought him here.” She glanced at Aegon, then at her daughter who was looking at her baby brother with large, dark eyes. “Although he does cry less often than Rhaenys did when she was an infant.” 

 

Rhaenys was indignant. “I was a  _ good  _ baby, Mama! I cried because I missed you, and Papa too.” 

Elia leaned over and kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “That’s very sweet, Rhaenys. I was only teasing you.” 

 

Rhaenys gasped. “Mama! Papa! The baby opened his eyes!” 

 

It was true. Aegon, who had until now been drowsing, soothed by the gentle rocking of Elia’s arms, was now wide awake, blinking at them in a confused sort of manner. He had his father’s eyes, a deep indigo violet that seemed almost incongruously mature and serious in his chubby little face. 

 

Elia saw Rhaegar lean forward slightly, though he was careful to ensure that Rhaenys was still comfortably seated in his lap. The last time he had seen his son was when he came to name him Aegon, and Aegon had not yet opened his eyes then. 

 

He looked at Aegon intently, and there was an air of quiet satisfaction about him. It was disquieting. Elia still remembered the day Rhaegar had explained his beliefs, told her of a song, a bleeding star, and his surety that Aegon was the Prince who was Promised. 

 

It made Elia uneasy. Being King of the Seven Kingdoms was already a heavy burden to bear, and Rhaegar seemed determined to pile more burdens on their son’s back, bringing back forgotten myths based off bundles of ancient scrolls already half crumbling to dust. 

 

“May I hold him?” Rhaegar asked her. 

Rhaenys seemed annoyed, poking at her father and staring at him crossly. “What about me?”

Rhaegar smiled at his daughter. “I only want to hold your brother for a while, Rhaenys. I haven’t gotten the chance to carry him yet since he was born. Isn’t it about time the baby saw his father?”

 

Rhaenys frowned at her father, considering his words. “Okay then,” she declared, while starting to climb off the chair on her own accord. “Only because I promised Mama I will be a  _ good  _ big sister.” 

 

“Thank you, Rhaenys,” Rhaegar said, reaching out a hand to steady Rhaenys as her feet touched the ground. “Your brother will need your support in the years to come, when you are both grown and he is King.” 

 

Rhaenys tilted her head to the side. “Like the Hand?” She looked thoughtful. “But he doesn’t do much, I heard Uncle Jon say so!” Elia winced at her daughter’s words, and the smile faded from Rhaegar’s face. Rhaenys, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, continued to speak. “He says he would be a better Hand. I think I could be a good Hand too, I always wash my hands clean before eating.” 

 

“That’s very good, sweetheart,” Elia said, trying to keep her voice calm to avoid startling her daughter. “I think it is time for your afternoon nap now, though, and time for you to return to the nursery.” 

Rhaenys looked mutinous. “But I want to stay and watch the baby!” 

Rhaegar broke in. “Aegon will still be here, when you wake up. And if you are a good girl and listen to your mother and the septa, I will read  _ two  _ stories to you later before bedtime.”

 

Elia raised her voice, calling for the septa who had been waiting without to accompany Rhaenys back to the nursery. Once they had left the room, Elia turned back to her husband. 

 

“Lord Connington needs to learn to hold his tongue. If he had been overheard by someone other than Rhaenys, and word got to your father, he might consider it as a slight against his own choice of Hand. It does not do to make such a boast now, not with the way things stand at court.” She frowned. “When did Rhaenys even hear Jon saying this?”

 

Rhaegar seemed embarrassed. “Ah, she... might have been hiding under my bed when Jon came to speak to me in my solar.” He cleared his throat with a cough. “She wanted to play hide-and-seek, and it was too late to ask Rhaenys to leave the room before Jon started speaking.” 

 

“Still, if Rhaenys repeats what she heard to anyone else...” 

 

“Rhaenys is three years old, who is like to pay attention to what she says? And besides, it is not as though she spends much time at court anyways.” 

 

_ No, but she does spend time around my ladies-in-waiting, and who knows what tales some of them might spread.  _ That was her concern though, not Rhaegar’s. She would have to speak with her daughter later. For the moment, however, she decided to drop the matter. 

 

“Do you still want to hold Aegon?” 

 

Rhaegar seemed surprised at her offer. He did reach for the bundle in her arms though, and —after hesitating for a fraction of a heartbeat—she carefully handed Aegon over to him. 

 

The baby was grizzling, an unhappy sound that usually preluded a storm of crying. Elia loved her baby, but she dreaded that warning sign that meant she had to brace herself for hours of wailing and stickily messy tears.

Rhaegar did not know what the grizzling meant though. She remembered that he had not spent much time around Rhaenys when she was a newborn, only bonding with her when she started to talk. He looked alarmed now. 

 

“Is Aegon alright? Do I need to summon the Grand Maester?”  He peered at his son, who was now staring at him with wide indigo eyes. His long hair tumbled over his shoulders in loose, unbound waves. Aegon’s grizzling subsided as he looked at his father’s pale hair, mesmerised by how it caught the light and shone softly. 

 

Aegon reached a chubby hand out, grabbing at a lock of Rhaegar’s hair in his tiny fist. He held onto it firmly, and pulled—with all the assurance and confidence expected of a little Targaryen princeling. 

 

Rhaegar yelped, jerking his head backwards reflexively. Aegon let go of Rhaegar’s hair, giggling. He reached out at the other strands of hair that were well within his reach. Rhaegar tossed his hair back over his shoulders, which caused Aegon to frown and begin grizzling again. 

 

Sensing an imminent disaster, Rhaegar shot a helpless look at Elia; a silent plea for her to save him. Elia raised her eyebrows. 

“I am not going to offer Aegon my own hair to pull at, if that is what you want me to do,” she said, though for the first time since Harrenhal, she found herself smiling at Rhaegar. She handed him a rattle that had been lying near her pillow. “Though this might serve to distract Aegon for now.” The rattle was in the bright red and orange colours of House Martell; Doran had sent it over to Dragonstone when Aegon was born, among a mountain of other such toys and baby supplies.

 

_ “My Arianne had similar toys to amuse her when she was an infant, and my newborn son Quentyn does as well. The rattle is a new thing of Oberyn’s design, modeled after a rattlesnake _ — _ he is very pleased with himself, and his style as the ‘Red Viper of Dorne’; though I fear he is  _ _ too _ _ pleased with himself, and has forgotten that the Yronwoods are now baying for our old blood debt to be settled, with the birth of my second child...”  _

 

Elia recalled the last letter her brother had sent her. She kept it still, locked in a drawer to which only she had the key, among other letters that were dear to her. 

 

The rattle Oberyn had designed was made of soft red cloth, stuffed in the shape of a snake that had bright, Martell-orange markings. At its tail end, it had a rattle, with the exterior made of horn, and was filled with either sand or beans, making a soft, swishy sound whenever it was shaken. The snake had a silly face, with stark black crosses for eyes and a forked tongue. Aegon loved the toy and often went to sleep with it beside him in his crib. 

 

If Rhaegar was bothered by the fact that Elia’s brothers had sent his heir a toy snake, rather than a dragon, that showed absolutely no hint of Targaryen red or black, he hid it well. 

Holding Aegon with one arm —Elia had to remind him to support the baby’s head and neck—he began to shake the rattle in front of Aegon, who stared at his father in a thoroughly unimpressed manner. 

 

Rhaegar gave her a rueful smile, the corners of his mouth turning up only slightly. “It appears that I am not the best at handling babies, though I suppose I might improve given time and practice,” he said quietly. 

  
She sat back against the pillows with a laugh. “I suppose only time will tell, my prince.”   


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ashara knits a blanket and Rhaenys tries to tie a bow on Balerion.

The star tracing a path across the sky was as red as the sky at dawn.

Lady Ashara Dayne sat near Aegon’s crib, rocking the babe gently in her arms while humming a lullaby. Warm golden candlelight cast flickering, dark grey shadows on the red-black tapestries hung along the walls, but the light only added a soft shine to the purple blanket that Aegon had been swaddled in.

“Look, Elia. Doesn’t this colour suit him well?” the lady whispered. “It goes very well with those large purple eyes of his, don’t you think?”

Elia, seated next to them in a wheeled chair much like Doran’s, stifled a laugh behind her hand, and rolled her eyes. “Thank you for knitting this, Ash,” she said, reaching over to pat Ashara gently on the knee. “I’m sure it will keep Aegon very warm indeed. He is lucky to have such a caring — “

“Godmother?” Ashara teased, laughing violet eyes bright with amusement. “I’m not quite ready for a child of my own, but I will gladly be another parent to Aegon, and Rhaenys, if I have to be. Someone does have to make up for Rhaegar’s faults, after all.” Her face folded into a frown. “Oh, I’m sorry Elia, I didn’t mean to remind you of…”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Elia cut in. “But mind that you don’t let Rhaenys hear that. She still loves her father, even if she doesn’t understand what he did at Harrenhal.”

“There’s nothing to “understand” about it, my lady. It was stupid,” Ashara said tartly. She wanted to toss her hair, just for the theatrics of it, to get Elia to smile again, but she did not want to disturb Aegon. “But what do you think of my knitting, Elia? I’m not much used to working with wool, but I do think that there’s been _some_ improvement in my knitting.”

That made Elia smile. “Yes. Your brother goes so far as to claim that your socks actually do look like socks now, rather than ‘misshapen woolly lumps’, in his words.” Ashara scoffed. “Arthur may wield Dawn, but he wouldn’t be able to mend a hole in his tunic even with a box of needles and a yard of thread. He ought to be thankful that I bother knitting these socks for him, in this cold.”

There was the soft pattering sound of running feet in the hallway. Elia wheeled herself over to the entrance of the room, and opened the door. Rhaenys shot past her, swift as a thrown spear, before coming to a halt in the doorway. She ran towards Elia and threw herself into Elia’s waiting embrace.

Rhaenys’ face was bright red, presumably from running so quickly. “Hello Mama! Hello Lady Aunt Ash!” she said, now walking beside Elia as she wheeled herself back. For all her boundless energy (so much like Oberyn’s) she never complained that Elia could not run with her or chase her around the gardens.  

“Ah, so there’s my favourite princess!”

Rhaenys looked at Ashara, tipping her head to the side while bouncing on her feet. “I thought Mama was your favourite princess.”

“Your Mama is my favourite Martell princess. And you are my favourite Targaryen princess,” Ashara whispered in a conspiratorial tone, as though telling Rhaenys a great secret, “although I don’t see why I can’t have two favourite princesses. After all,” she flashed a quick wink at Elia, with those sparkling violet eyes, “ I love you both very much.”

 “Why were you running down the hallway, Rhaenys?” Elia asked, although she thought she already knew the answer. Sure enough, she saw the gleam of a pink satin ribbon clutched tight in Rhaenys’ small hand. “Have you been trying to tie a bow on Balerion again?”

Rhaenys nodded. “He runs away though. He’s very fast.”  

“Maybe if you gave him a treat he might be more willing to let you tie a bow onto him while he ate it.” Elia never worried if the cat would hurt or scratch Rhaenys. Even if she had not trained it herself, it was obvious to everyone on Dragonstone that Balerion was fiercely protective of Rhaenys.

Rhaenys considered this, then skipped over to Ashara and Aegon. “Can Egg play with me and Bal now?” she asked, standing on tiptoes to look at her brother. Aegon had woken up at the sound of her voice, blinking groggily at her. “I wish he could chase Bal with me.”

“There now,” Ashara said, bopping the tip of Rhaenys’ nose, all the while not letting go of her careful hold on Aegon. “Before you know it he’ll grow up, and soon you little dragons will have everyone in this castle running after you trying to keep you out of mischief.”

Elia reached over to take Aegon from Ashara. “For now though, why don’t you let Lady Aunt Ash help you look for Balerion?” She gave Ashara a look that said, _keep an eye on her, don’t let her run too fast._

Ashara understood, rising from the chair and smoothing out her skirts. “Come along then, princess,” she called out cheerfully. “Did you see which way Balerion went? Why don’t we drop by the kitchen, let’s see if we can get some fish or…” Elia watched them go, giggling and hatching some grand plot to lure Balerion out. It was good to see Ashara acting more like herself again, after Harrenhal, after Brandon Stark.

In her arms, Aegon stirred and let out a great yawn, blinking sleepily at her. The blanket Ashara had wrapped around him had loosened, and he waved the one chubby small fist he had freed in the air in triumph. Elia lifted a hand, intending to tuck a few stray curls of hair that had fallen loose behind her ear, when she felt Aegon grasp her finger and hold on tight. He let out another yawn, before drifting off into a contented, peaceful slumber. Elia felt her chest grow tight with a strange mingling of love and hope.

Aegon was growing every day, by all appearances a healthy babe, even if the master suspected that they would need to continue monitoring his lungs and breathing. He would continue to grow, and some day, he would be able to walk, and run, and play at the Water Gardens with Rhaenys and his cousins, from brave, clever Arianne to all of Oberyn’s daughters. Dragonstone was carved stone walls, and sweet, sad ballads strung from Rhaegar’s silver harp, but Elia hoped that one day they would be able to visit the Gardens, with its pink marble pavements and the ringing shouts of laughter from children both common and highborn alike.

One day, they would be safe enough to do so.

Outside their window, a red comet blazed across the sky, cutting a path as swift and sure as the swing of a sword.   


End file.
